


The Days that Follow

by thedevilchicken



Category: Rope (1948)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hanged Brandon Shaw in 1952.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Days that Follow

Phillip Morgan hanged himself in 1949.

Rupert went to the funeral, in his best black suit with his hat held up to his chest as he watched them lower the coffin as if the gesture could accurately express his regret. He wasn’t sure that there were earthly means to do so, as dramatic as it sounded when he told it to the bathroom mirror as he took off his tie that evening. It seemed that the mirror was his confidante; it knew all of his secrets since no one else did.

It was sunny the day of the burial, though Rupert had wanted rain and clearly expected it despite all forecasts. He was standing there at the graveside as he was with a long black umbrella for a cane, using Mrs Kentley’s tears as an anchor for his thoughts so they wouldn’t stray to the night that had led to all this. He had only limited success, as the images of David Kentley’s body in the Manhattan twilight tugged persistently at the edges of his vision. He wished he’d stayed away, at home, taken a trip, sipped coffee with the beautiful women he’d met at the company’s Paris office. But there had never been any hint of a doubt that he’d be there that May morning, burying a murderer.

It was a small gathering. Only Brandon was conspicuous in his absence. Locked away, despite petitions for day release for the funeral, Brandon was represented by an empty chair at Rupert’s side because each person present knew beyond a doubt that without Rupert Cadell, there would have been no murder. The newspapers said so during the trial, because Brandon told it to the jury. It was vindictive of him but Rupert hadn’t minded, just because he knew it was true. He wasn’t sprinkling the idea with added melodrama - it was a plain and simple fact.

He’d known all about Phillip and Brandon, of course, Morgan and Shaw. They were thick as thieves all through the time they’d spent at school, had been when he’d arrived around the time Brandon turned sixteen. Phillip was the elder of the two, though it had never seemed that way, considering the extent to which he was influenced. Still, they were the kind of friends that played the witty but ruthless practical jokes, the ones that larked around outside of class and genuinely excelled inside it. Brandon played lacrosse and Phillip swam, the two sports an interesting allegory for the two boys with Brandon the dictatorial team captain and Phillip vying for medals alone. They were his brightest students in his brightest class; once lacking that stimulation of debate with the other years, his days as a teacher had essentially been numbered.

And, of course, he’d known all about their friendship. He’d been there once, long ago, the boarding school mentality that found it perfectly acceptable if not perfectly admissible for two young men to engage in that particular kind of bonding. He’d seen them once, though he’d quickly turned away; just before their graduation he caught them in a quiet corner, Brandon’s hands in Phillip’s hair, Phillip’s face the perfect picture of devotion. They reminded him of his own youth, to a point. Brandon reminded him of himself at that same age. But as the time ticked by he’d wondered if he’d been meant to find them.

Phillip was besotted. Brandon wanted to be God. It seemed all he’d ever needed to be so was the approval of Rupert Cadell.

He married Janet Walker three years later, three years after the murder, 1951. Brandon told him one day, from the other side of the glass, that he’d tried quite hard to steer her back toward former beau Kenneth Lawrence; Janet had her reasons for leaving him, she said, as she had her reasons for marrying a man twice her age. She smiled at him in a way that made him forget David Kentley’s dead eyes; he’d been middle-of-the-road in terms of intelligence but an inoffensive man, pleasant, would have made a good father, the brand of blunt, bland intellect that made the country run. Janet missed him but moved on. She should never have had to. He shouldn’t have died.

They hanged Brandon Shaw in 1952.

When the will was read, the apartment was left to Rupert Cadell though he protested he didn’t want it. He went there one day, a bright afternoon that reached into every last corner because he could think of nowhere he wouldn’t rather be. He found it just as it had been left following the brief investigation; Mrs Wilson had covered everything in old white dustsheets then left for a job where her employer wouldn’t be throwing dinner parties over the body of an old school friend.

It was Janet who suggested they move there, and after three months of no, he agreed. He remembered the spectacular skyline, the space, the location, and decided that there was only one fault. They sold the furniture before the moved in, had the walls stripped down, had every last room done to their taste and not Brandon Shaw’s. When they made love in the bedroom, he didn’t think of the lovers who’d been there before, whose relationship had lasted past school, past all acceptability, became a secret that grew into that dark, twisted thing that ended in murder.

They held a dinner party on the fifth anniversary of David Kentley’s death. A few friends told him it was in extremely poor taste but the Kentleys disagreed, both father and mother making it to the table this time though the food was unsurprisingly left close to untouched. Ken Lawrence came along and brought his new wife who seemed fascinated but had the good grace to set aside her questions for once the dead man’s family had left. It was almost cathartic to talk about it, he thought, as he gestured to the empty space in the lounge where the old wooden chest had been.

But once the guests were gone, once his wife was asleep in bed, he sat on the couch by the window and tried to pry his gaze from that spot. He supposed then that through the years he’d always feel the weight of guilt. He supposed he’d never be free of it, and knew that he’d shrouded himself in it. He’d live in that apartment until the day he died. He’d love Janet Walker-Cadell for all he was worth. And he’d keep that space empty, because that was how it should be.

And in the end, no matter what changes, Kentley will always be in the box.


End file.
